


The Eagle

by penstrikesmidnight



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Gen, Speakeasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29193543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penstrikesmidnight/pseuds/penstrikesmidnight
Summary: Shirabu follows a step behind Tendou, past the restaurant and down a few stairs to a door with a gilded plate that reads, simply, The Eagle. “It’s a hole-in-the-wall café during the day,” Tendou announces, making a series of raps on the door. “And at night, ya gotta whisper the right phrase through the hole-in-the-wall to gain access to our elite club, see."
Relationships: Shirabu Kenjirou & Tendou Satori
Kudos: 2





	The Eagle

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I wrote this piece for [High Rise](https://twitter.com/HighRiseZine), a Shiratorizawa fashion zine! I had a lot of fun building the atmosphere of a 1920's speakeasy, and I hope you enjoy!

The concrete glitters in the orange glow of the streetlamp Shirabu is standing under. He turns the collar of his navy woolen jacket up, misty rain beading along the fabric. Music pours out of a restaurant behind him as the door whispers open.

Tendou is ten minutes late. Shirabu is not surprised, but he is a little miffed. He can feel the rain collecting in his hair; he should have brought an umbrella.

Tires hush in the street as a vehicle pulls up to the curb. The water sprays just shy of Shirabu’s ankles. He is grateful for that, partly because he doesn’t want to spend the night with wet pant legs, but also because Tendou had strongly suggested he look nice. “Not formal wear nice,” he had said, “but Wakatoshi likes a well-dressed man.”

A black umbrella unfurls as a man steps out of the car. Shirabu stands up straight, feels a few drops of rain slide down the back of his neck as he smooths his jacket.

It is, indeed, Satori Tendou. He is hatless, coatless, and dressed in a finely tailored black three-piece suit. Shirabu’s eyes are instantly drawn to the rose on his lapel, blood-red against the dark background.

“Howdy, Kenjiro. Poor thing, hope you weren’t waiting long.” Tendou puts the umbrella over Shirabu’s head, then sweeps his free hand across Shirabu’s shoulders as if he could wipe away the water.

“It is a pleasant evening, Tendou,” Shirabu says, voice neutral. Tendou throws back his head, laughing. Shirabu tries not to cringe away too noticeably.

“Ah, to be young and obsequious again. What I wouldn’t give…”

“Can we go inside?” Shirabu interrupts. Tendou drops his head, eyes narrowing. Shirabu gulps but stands tall. The street is silent except for the stifled music from the restaurant behind them and the sluicing of rain in the gutters. With bated breath, Shirabu waits for whatever Tendou decides to do with him. Tendou has a…reputation. There is a reason he is the one chaperoning Shirabu tonight.

Suddenly, Tendou swings the umbrella, turning on his heel and striding down the street. Shirabu stands, stunned for a moment, before hurrying to catch him. “Maybe there is something in you after all. Come along, we don’t want to be late to our own party.”

Breathing easier, Shirabu follows a step behind Tendou, past the restaurant and down a few stairs to a door with a gilded plate that reads, simply, The Eagle. “It’s a hole-in-the-wall café during the day,” Tendou announces, making a series of raps on the door. “And at night, ya gotta whisper the right phrase through the hole-in-the-wall to gain access to our elite club, see. Ah, Tsutomu, so nice of you to finally let us in.”

Tsutomu stands straight. “So sorry, sir.”

Shirabu winces as Tsutomu’s voice carries loudly through the door. The lock thunks softly, but before the door opens, Tendou clears his throat. Tsutomu’s dark head of hair appears back in the slot in the door. “I know you’re new to the post, but you haven’t even asked for the password.”

Tendou’s voice has dropped. Tsutomu’s dark eyes widen, and he begins stammering words about knocks and passcodes Shirabu can barely comprehend. Before Tsutomu can come up with a coherent sentence, Tendou laughs. “Just kidding. It’s a little initiation, if you will.” This last comment is said to Shirabu, who nods uncertainly as the door swings open silently, Tsutomu gesturing them in.

“I can take your coat!” Tsutomu says, voice eager. Shirabu shrugs out of his coat, handing it over, then straightens his vest and shirt. Tsutomu is also dressed impeccably, a white scarf tied at his neck to complement his navy suit. Shirabu wonders if he had misheard Tendou’s dress instructions about not wearing formal clothing.

A whistle echoes through the room, taking Shirabu’s attention away from his attire. The light in the room is muted, just a few wall sconces lit, leading the way to a door yawning wide on the right hand side of the room. The whistling grows fainter. Tsutomu’s voice, still loud, penetrates the silence. “Are you going to follow or what? Don’t want to get on his bad side.”

“Be quiet,” Shirabu hisses, ignoring the way Tsutomu smirks as he hurries down the creaking stairs.

The stairs drop Shirabu into a wide, wood-paneled brick room, filled with small tables and booths, almost nicer than the upstairs room. Running against an unmodified brick wall to their left is the prohibited bar, eye-catching with its glittering glasses, bottles, and mirrors. Shirabu’s eyes catch on a door swinging shut in the corner, but he doesn’t linger there long because in the front of the room is a small raised platform; a stage, Shirabu realizes when he notices three men setting up various instruments. A trill of a scale floats through the room from an ashy haired man at the piano, a deep thump from an upright bass joining in from a man with dark hair and an edgy haircut. The other figure, broad and tall, fingers the keys of his saxophone.

“This is a rare treat, watching a speakeasy come to life,” Tendou says, draping one of his lanky arms across Shirabu’s shoulders. “Now, I have things to do, places to be, people to haunt. Make yourself comfortable. After all, this will be your only night to fully appreciate the scene, if you decide to join us.”

Tendou flings his free arm out toward the room before reaching out and taking Shirabu’s fedora. Shirabu stiffens but bites his tongue, watching as Tendou settles the hat onto his own head. “I think you’d look pretty in a headband. Semi-Semi! Don’t you think our new young prodigy would look good in a headband?”

The man at the piano turns, a scowl etched on his face. “I take it you want one.”

“If you have one on you,” Tendou says in a faux contrite voice. Shirabu wonders why Semi would have something like that. He is not as surprised as he thought he would be when Semi pulls a small, glittering band out from a bag behind the piano. Tendou gestures with his head, and Shirabu follows him toward the stage.

Tendou stands uncomfortably close as he places the headband on Shirabu’s head. Once he’s done, he sticks his tongue out, tilts his head, and Shirabu forces himself to stay still. “Lovely as I imagined,” Tendou finally announces. “Doesn’t he look stunning?”

Without looking, Semi grunts an affirmation. The man at the bass grins broadly and nods. The saxophonist doesn’t acknowledge them past a glance. Shirabu sees a peek of suspenders under his coat and glances away quickly. 

“Thank you, Hayato,” Tendou says to the man at the bass. “Semi-Semi, Reon, you should be more like him.”

Shirabu presses his lips together as he watches Semi roll his eyes and Reon shrug his shoulders affably. He wonders if this is all an act that Tendou is putting on, to test Shirabu, or if he is like this at all times. Shirabu doesn’t have time to consider the idea further, because Tendou whirls back toward him. “Now that you’re properly attired, good sir, please sit and observe while I make sure the bar is stocked.”

Shirabu picks a table, not too close to the stage, with a clear view of the stairs and the bar and the small area he assumes is for dancing. Tendou gives him a nod of approval before leaving. He’d told Shirabu to observe, and so, he does.

The bartender is a ginger-haired man. He’s dressed to the nines in an aggressively white half-apron, his vest and arm garters black as midnight. Tendou flits into and out of the bar area from the back room a few times, his voice surprisingly hushed enough to stay within the confines of his conversation with the bartender, before he slips away entirely.

The band starts to play, a soft, crooning piece that sets an atmosphere for people who have yet to arrive. Shirabu begins to see, now, how a basement of brick and wood can become an illicit meeting place for the rich and daring.

It’s a gradual change. It starts with one person, then five, then suddenly the lights are dim with the press of so many bodies. It is impressive how much a little ambiance can transform this place into a dreamy, gritty club.

Shirabu studies the way The Eagle operates. He picks out members of the staff who fill up empty space with words, smoke, and dancing, watches as they guide giggling, glamorous girls to and away from the bar and the dance floor with ease and converse affably with the gentlemen as if they were pals. Shirabu is distinctly aware of how small the room actually is, how the tide keeps ebbing and flowing at the whim of the staff to make it seem spacious. It’s very fluid, very mechanical.

It’s all alarmingly alluring.

Time slides gracefully away from Shirabu as he admires the scene playing out in front of him. At some point, someone places a drink onto the table, and he takes one sip, two, until the sweet, sugary thing is gone. It only adds to the hazy, slippery feeling of the night.

Suddenly, Tendou appears in the chair across from Shirabu. He sits up straight, the world snapping back into clarity. “Well, you’re looking very broody. Buck up, the night’s almost over!”

Shirabu looks for the time. There is a clock above the bar, gold and black, which proves it has indeed been hours since he sat down. Tendou chuckles when Shirabu looks back at him, stunned. “We do our best to make everything feel effortless. But I have relegated you to this corner for the night, and I do apologize for that.” Tendou leans forward, as if they are sharing a secret. Shirabu has no choice but to lean forward as well, holding his breath in anticipation.

“Do you know how to dance, Mr. Shirabu? It’s the last song of the evening,” Tendou’s voice is next to his ear, his words close enough to hear under the lively saxophone solo happening on stage.

Shirabu swallows, the air suddenly thin between them. “Yes, sir,” he says, thankful his voice doesn’t tremble. 

Tendou’s grin is sharp as he takes Shirabu’s hand, pulling him from his seat. “I’m partial to the Charleston myself, but I think we’ll just do a foxtrot, what do you say?” Before Shirabu can answer, Tendou is already counting. “One, two, one, two, three, and.”

Tendou is a very competent dancer and guides Shirabu effortlessly into a foxtrot. The lights blur behind Tendou’s tall, lanky form. Shirabu is captivated by his unnerving red hair, just peeking out from underneath Shirabu’s fedora, the way it seems to shimmer like everything else in the room. The music swells, drowning out everything except Shirabu and Tendou and the steps they’re creating together in this dangerous game.

When the music stops, the room rushes back into focus. There’s chattering and laughter, clinking glasses and heels tapping on the floor as men and women walk around each other. Shirabu yawns, closing his eyes for an instant. Then, he is sitting back in the place he had been before Tendou had pulled him to his feet. He has a vague recollection of Tendou guiding him there.

He blinks. The lights are brighter.

He blinks again. Everyone is moving up the stairs, fish in a stream, voices hushed and giggling.

He blinks one last time. The band is no longer on stage, the room is once again a brick basement.

“Well, I think the evening was splendid,” Tendou says. Shirabu looks up at him, the world once again magicless. “Poor thing, we’ve exhausted you. I expect you to be much more lively tomorrow.”

Shirabu blinks again, the words winding through his head. “Wait. Tomorrow? I passed?”

“Yes.” Shirabu spins around to see the man himself, Wakatoshi Ushijima, shutting the back door firmly behind him. “You were a very avid student tonight, Kenjiro Shirabu. I hope you had a nice evening. If there is anything we can improve, please, let me know.”

“Oh,” Shirabu stutters. The lights are glaring with no extra bodies to cast shadows, every sound loud with nothing to muffle them. The bartender is meticulously wiping down the bar. Semi and Hayato have picked up brooms, the hushing of bristles against the wood floor a soft symphony under their chatter. “This was…amazing. A well-oiled machine. I would only want to make myself a part of it, sir.”

Ushijima nods. He appears satisfied by Shirabu’s answer. Shirabu can’t help but stare at the way Ushijima’s suit is so finely made. It probably cost more than most of the objects in the room combined. And the way it is pressed to perfection. Shirabu would not have been surprised to learn that Ushijima had put it on moments before stepping into the room, everything is so perfectly tailored and coordinated. Everyone else looks frumpy in comparison. “We will see you tomorrow, then. I think you would do well working with Tendou, setting up the bar. After you are familiar with those tasks, we will consider what other things you may help with. You have unprecedented observational skills.”

“Y-Yes, sir,” Shirabu says, clearing his throat when his voice cracks. “I am happy to do whatever you wish.”

Ushijima nods again. He places his hand on Tendou’s shoulder for an instant before walking up the stairs. Tendou hums, turning his dark eyes to Shirabu. Shirabu stays still under the gaze. “Well, then, our newest eagle should get his beauty sleep. We have a long day tomorrow. You’ll have many more people to get to know. Oh, and maybe upgrade your suit, yeah? We’ll add the tailor to our list of places to visit.”

Shirabu’s heart flutters. He must not control his expression well, because Tendou smirks. He does not say anything, just plucks the headband Shirabu had forgotten he’d been wearing off of his head, takes Shirabu’s hat from his own head and replaces it on Shirabu’s, then theatrically bows Shirabu toward the stairs. Shirabu takes them slowly, trying to calm his thoughts, school his face back to its usual stoic expression. When he makes it to the top, Ushijima has disappeared, and so has Tsutomu. Shirabu finds his coat, slips it on. Before he can open the door, Tendou speaks, his words echoing in the large, empty room.

“Ten o’clock. Clear your schedule. Don’t be late. You want to be a part of this, you want to work for Ushijima, you make him your number one priority. Are you ready for that?”

Shirabu turns back toward him. In the dark, Tendou looms ominously, a shadowy monster with a wide grin. Shirabu squares his shoulders, sets his jaw, holds his head up.

“Yes,” he says, his voice steady. “I will do whatever you need me to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos always welcome!
> 
> Socials in the profile!


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